


Of trust, betrayal and forgiveness.

by Chemical_Defect



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Return from Death, Sherlock is Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-10 04:37:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5571451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chemical_Defect/pseuds/Chemical_Defect
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a post-TRF ficlet commissionned by a friend of mine. She basically challenged a fic out of a song - Let's Marvin Gaye (and get it on).<br/>She asked for post Reichenbach, pining John, and something explicit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of trust, betrayal and forgiveness.

**Author's Note:**

> This work is unbetaed, unBrit-picked, and has been written while I was basically sleep-deprived.  
> All errors are mine and mine alone, please do feel free to point them out.

 

John had a very rough time a year ago –and been coping the British way in the last six months, pushing every emotion down and ignoring his feelings.

Sherlock had rubbed off on him on that particular topic.

He had become numb inside and didn’t see the point in doing anything.

It was not fair that all things around him started to come back to life in this spring season while he was stuck in a limbo ever since Sherlock’s fall. Sherlock probably hadn’t had the slightest idea what consequences his action had. Boredom and an immense sulk possibly made him j… - No. He must not think that way. Donovan, Anderson, and the whole Metropolitan police had had a role to play in that. Not to mention the so-called journalists. Even his own brother…no wonder he had…

The worst of all was him who hadn’t perceived anything, had not realised anything was amiss. He lived with him, he _knew_ him… a 100%...but…

Having lived with the only consulting detective, shared so many experiences with him, given him the attention he deserved, you would think John would have seen the smallest change in his friend. Who was he to call himself a friend of Sherlock Holmes? A real friend would have sensed that something was wrong. A real friend would not have just stood there and…let events unfold. A real friend would have prevented the…A _real_ friend would have _saved_ him.

John had tried to distance himself from the friends Sherlock and he had. But they did not let him. And anyway, John was not very motivated. Not only would it have meant to start a new life, it would also have meant moving out of Baker Street, find a new flat, very possibly out of London, a new job –which would not be provided by Mycroft Holmes out of guilt. All of this required effort –too much effort, if he were honest, and he was absolutely not ready to do any.

Everything remained much the same as before the Fall. Mrs. Hudson would come up regularly with tea, then would continue being his hous – _landlady_. Greg and he would go for pints every week –one to talk about his cheating wife, the other to talk about his annoying flatmate.

And yet, everything was different. Mrs. Hudson would go up with one less tea cup, and when he was in a pub with Greg, John would not complain about Sherlock’s behaviour but keep on talking about how he missed his flatmate’s direst traits.

 

A couple of months after Sherlock left, John received a phone call from Greg, asking him to resume the consulting work Sherlock and he had for the Met -–even if doing anything for anyone else than himself was, in regard to Sherlock, as far away from the truth as the Sun from Pluto. John had needed convincing, but in the end had accepted.

Although it was not ideal, it provided John with an occupation, a reason to leave his gloomy flat that reflected John’s emotional mind set –empty, grey and cold – and something a little more thrilling than locum work at the clinic.

He had gone back to see Ella a few times, but then had reasoned that as she had not been able to help him adjusting to normal civilian life the first time around, there was no reason she would succeed in helping him now.

He needed a miracle.

 

His phone rang, displaying ‘D.I. Lestrade’ as the caller, which meant this call was work related.

“John Watson”

“John, hello, listen, there’s been a murder in Brixton. It’d be great to have your input. Come have a look?”

John sighed heavily.

“Why do you want my opinion _there_?”

A silence of a few seconds settled over the line.

“Shit! John, I’m sorry. I hadn’t realised…”

“No, it’s…fine. What’s the address?” asked John whilst getting a piece of paper out. “I’ll be there in…45’ or so.”

“Thank you, John.”

 

When he exited the Tube station in Brixton, a feeling of dread began growing in his chest. There could not be anything good to come out of investigating a murder in the same area as that of the Pink Lady. He soldiered on. That was what Sherlock would have thought best.

John was aware he was mourning as if they had been a married couple – God knows he’d been told that often enough – but he did not see any other way to mourn. And, if he were honest, he was in decent mourning. When he was out in public, that is.

 

He entered Angell Town Estate.

It was surprising that the Yard would investigate a murder there. Not that deaths were rare here, on the contrary. Usually, Brixton police force would take care of them. There must have been something special to this one to involve the Yarders.

As it happened, the deceased was a well-off, curly black-haired man, dressed in an expensive suit. As John’s eyes settled on the wound to his forehead, images of Sherlock’s bloodied head came to him, assailing his brain, almost bringing him to his knees.

“John. John. Listen to me. John?”

“Sher…”

“No, John. John, _don’t_ go there. John, please. It is _not_ Sherlock. John, you’re not in front of St. Bart’s. Focus. Take deep breaths. There you go. Back to me. John, stay calm. It’s fine. You’re fine. I promise,” he said in the most soothing voice he was capable of. “Has anyone a blanket to give Doctor Watson?” he shouted. “There you go, John,” he said, putting the blanket around him.

“Greg. I’m…what happened? What am I doing there? Who…?’’

“I called you to come to a crime scene, you saw the body and had some sort of a panic attack. But it’s all right, now. I told you over the phone, but you must have…Anyway, can you take a quick look around,” he answered while his team had covered the body, “and tell me what you see? Please?”

“I’m not Sherlock…” John replied, in a shaken voice.

“No, you’re not. But you’re consulting, in his name. You can do it,” Greg answered encouragingly. John smiled feebly, took several deep breaths so as to gather strength to do what Greg required of him, and got to his feet.

“Well, you wouldn’t get involved in something out of your division, which makes it special. You would not have called me for something that seems so very… It’s personal. I mean, _Brixton_? That man lying dead? He does look very much like…And what was that near the collar of his coat?” he asked, as he went to take a look at it. It was a series of numbers written on a piece of paper. The handwriting seemed wrong, not distressed enough.

“4357. 729. –– “ read John aloud. “Any idea what this means?” he asked Greg, who shook his head. John’s intense staring at seemingly nothing very much reminded him of a lanky, abrasive detective. He grew more and more concerned.

“John…Take all the time you need. There’s no rush, really. He’s not going anywhere,” he added, indicating the dead man on the floor.

John opened the moleskin notebook he carried with him and started writing. His reasoning, while very decent, was nowhere near as good as…and certainly not in thought form. He always had relied so much on writing to reason problems out. The actual “breaking the cypher” didn’t take him long, especially as Greg pointed out that the various pieces of information were separated by full stops. The dash took longer to make sense –until he remembered that the case was presenting him with something very personal.

“I’m sorry, Greg, I have to…” John declared, out of the blue and somewhat laboriously as he exited the place.

Although he was not very good at acting, he certainly didn’t need to act at that particular moment. He had left as fast as if hell hounds were on his heels, and didn’t hear Greg’s apology for putting him through this.

Someone certainly owed him an apology, and it wasn’t Greg.

 

John hailed a cab as best he could from Brixton – a feat in itself, if he considered _he_ was the one doing the hailing. Not to mention that getting a cab in that particular part of town was something of a challenge. He managed and exited the cab a little more than fifteen minutes after he’d started –John’s wired direction to the South bank skate park probably helped. He had tipped the cabbie rather generously to make up for the state he’d been in.

The cab pulled in front of the South bank centre as the skate park was in a pedestrian area. John all but leapt out of the cab, probably sporting a murderous look on his face, if the wide berth passers-by gave him was anything to go by. He strode to the skate park, intent on finding…information. He must remind himself that it was what he was looking for –nothing more.

He came in sight of the skate park almost immediately, but didn’t see anything conspicuous –only teenagers and young adults on skateboards and rollerblades, without much of protection. That was simply asking for disaster.

As if on cue, one youth fell rather badly.

“Shite!” one of his partners shouted. “Man, get a doctor!”

John was brought out of his anger reverie by the situation.

“Ah, let me through,” he said, “I’m a doctor,” he added in a voice which sounded like he was the one who needed convincing. A young man came up to him, almost menacingly.

“You know what’s what, then?”

Rather taken aback, John nonetheless did not forget his professionalism and answered as calmly as he could.

“What I know is that one of your friends has suffered a nasty fall right here and he seems to be in need of medical assistance,” he added, indicating the young man’s listless body. And quite a nasty fall it had been indeed, he thought as he saw a slowly growing pool of red liquid around the youth’s head. John nearly froze in his tracks, but remembered that a life was at stake. He didn’t think any further, and ran to the youth.

He took his wrist, looking for a pulse. It was there, slow, but steady. He would need to check for more vitals, but as he had no material whatsoever at hand, he would have to make do.

“Well, don’t just stand there! Call an ambulance!” he shouted. “Lad, hey, can you hear me?” The young man made no answer. “Can you hear me?” he asked again, as he put his hand near the young man’s nose to know whether he was still breathing. The two most important vitals were responding accordingly. He’d only have to try to get him back to consciousness again, so he kept talking to him, mostly nonsense, but the important thing was to talk to the person, not to deliver a deep, thought-out speech, was it?

As he kept talking, he realised that he knew the young man. He was the one who had helped Sherlock with information on ‘painting’. Shit. The youth had done nothing wrong – why would anything … Just as his doctor instincts kicked in and his hands went to unbuckle the young man’s –Raz – belt, he perceived a slight twitch of his hand, a fluttering of his eyes and an almost-back-to-normal pulse.

“Dr. Watson. The lark’s waiting for the sun to shine,” he said in a weak voice. What he said must be the shock talking – John certainly couldn’t make heads or tails of it. One thing was certain, John had had his fair share of people falling – no matter of which height.

“Shush, Raz. Ambulance’s coming. They’ll be there in no time.” Raz acquiesced. “Glad to see you’re waking up. What have you been up to, then?” asked John, doctoring till the arrival of the paramedics. He would feel terribly bad were he to abandon a victim of whatever trauma to go off after his…business, while everything he had learnt told him to stay and keep them talking until help arrived –which should be any minute now. He recalled the incident with the Woman and how Sherlock had called the police. Were he not in a public space – and risking to hurt innocent civilians, he would reach for his gun and shoot in the air a couple of times.

Thankfully, his musing were interrupted by the shrilling sound of an ambulance coming closer.

“In darkness lies what’s fair, Doctor,” Raz said, in the most serious of tones. John wondered just how hard he had hurt his head. He knew that a wound, _any_ wound –no matter how small – to the head would bleed badly and could have terribly grave consequences. He asked the paramedics to inform him of any condition the young man was in. He promised himself to check on Raz’ status.

 

The paramedics gone, the youths and young adults back on their skateboards and rollerblades, John went into the skating park. He had not forgotten the note he had found just next to the victim’s body. Huh. He had not asked for their name. That should be strange, but then again, it was not every day that one relived their best friend’s…demise, and certainly not that vividly.

Oh, how he wished he could turn back time for, say, about a year. Act on a few moments…take a few chances…Save his…

Despite the shiny sun outside, the inside of the skate park was rather dark. There was some light, obviously, and it was enough for the youngster, although it wasn’t for him.

John had been looking for anything that was out if the ordinary. He found nothing. Young people putting their skates on, talking in their coded language, doing things…No, really, there was nothing out of the ordinary, here. He sat down, exhaled deeply in frustration and rested his head in his hands, defeated.

He was so certain he had understood the message perfectly… But he had got everything wrong, from the location to the meaning of the code. He was a fool to believe those who thought that Sherlock’s genius had rubbed off on him.

There was nothing there. If only Sherlock…he was still in denial, refusing to believe what had happened in front of him. That’s why he had come here, he was hoping he would…but then how… _why_?

There was no reason to keep lying to himself, was there? He missed the man, he missed the life he had with him, with all the danger that went with it. He had been so… _alive_ , then. Sherlock had brought him back to life by his mere presence. How was he supposed to…?

He heaved a loud sigh. His first reaction when he had thought he had decoded the note had been anger –anger at himself for falling for Sherlock’s trick, for believing that _Sherlock_ would be pushed to that kind of extremity for _any_ reason, anger at Sherlock who had rushed to danger on his own and put him through all this…

But his anger had died out as quickly as it came, leaving him to the deep emptiness of grieving.

 

Someone sat next to him. God, some people had nerves…! Wasn’t it obvious he needed some kind of privacy? _Then again, if it were peace and quiet you were after, I don’t think you’ve come to the right place_ , his inner voice said.

The person next to him didn’t say a thing –thankfully. Nothing happened. There was John’s life. Back to square one, where nothing happened to him. He really wouldn’t say no to a bit of action. Life-threatening action would be nice. _His_ life, not that of a young homeless artist.

He was handed a piece of paper by the person who had been sat next to him. A woman, it turned out, who was quite obviously as homeless as Raz was.

Her face was familiar, but still he felt that some mistake must have been made. Until he read the words written on it. “Vatican Cameos,” read the piece of paper.

Straightening his spine, tensing his muscles, he was ready for action. Nothing happened for the better part of ten minutes.

He decided he had waited long enough in this place. He got up and headed back to Baker Street.

He walked through the Jubilee Bridge, passed in front of the National Gallery before his mind turned onto automatic mode. He walked all the way back to Baker Street, reliving memories of his time with Sherlock.

The flat was exactly as it had been when he’d left it in the morning, dull, grey, still cluttered with Sherlock’s belongings which he hadn’t had the heart to put away in boxes.

The skull was still adorning the mantelpiece, its empty orbits mocking him.

John didn’t have the energy to glare at it. He went to the kitchen, poured himself a couple of measures of whiskey, before he decided to take the bottle with him. He sat in his armchair, facing Sherlock’s empty one. He sipped his whiskey, lost in thought, reviewing every memory he had of Sherlock.

“How I miss him…!” he thought as he drowned his glass. He poured himself another. And another. And another. By that time, the deep, black pit of emptiness that was his heart was so numbed that he didn’t feel _anything_. Sighing, he closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the sensation of something cutting through his brain took precedence over everything else. It was a good thing that the sun had set, as it meant a less noisy street, and darkness. The opposite would just have hurt all the more.

 

Eerily, there was no sound at all in the flat, not even water dripping in the bathroom, nor in the sink. And the curtains were closed. He knew he had opened them in the morning.

“Oh well, I must have done that before taking that nap,” he figured.

He heard a creaking noise coming from the stairs, but didn’t make too much of it. After all, his very foggy mind could come up with so much nonsense… He then heard a knock on the door.

“That’s…spooky,” he thought.

“Dear, I was wondering…”

“Nope, just Mrs. Hudson,” he muttered, zoning out.

“Look at the state of you, young man!” she scolded him. “How do you expect to get any better, wallowing in your grief like that?!”

“Mrs. Hudson…”

“I know you miss your Sherlock, dear…”

“Mrs. Hudson!” his shouting made him wince “how many times…” he mumbled “Sherlock was not my boyfriend.”

Mrs. Hudson merely quirked her eyebrow at him.

“Anyway, dear, I wondered if you were waiting…Still, maybe… This came in the mail this morning. I would have given it to you sooner, but…” she trailed off, giving him the thin parcel addressed to him.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” he said, “I should ask…” he added, visibly wondering what it was he should be asking.

“Don’t worry, you’ll come to no harm. I don’t know what it is, but I have been assured it was perfectly safe,” she replied, her eyes gleaming. It was obvious that she wanted to know what was in the parcel, and being severely hungover did not prevent John from seeing it.

He briefly hesitated and opened the parcel, hands shaking. He found yet another note, this time in a handwriting he’d recognise anywhere. John froze.

“I made a judgement call,” read the card.

“John? Are you all right, dear? You’ve gone as if you’d seen a ghost,” said Mrs. Hudson, a panicked tremor in her voice. John had fallen back into his armchair, and passed his hand on his face.

“John….Should I…I don’t know, call for help?” she insisted, visibly upset to see him so shaken.

“No,” he replied, a little too firmly. “No, thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” he said more softly. “I am fine,” he added with a small smile. “Really, I am fine, Mrs. Hudson. Thank you.”

“Are you sure, dear? You still look rather poorly,” she mothered him.

“Not enough sleep, that’s all. You have no reason to worry, really. Thank you for bringing the parcel,” he said in a tone of voice that clearly implied she was to leave him.

“ _Manners_ , young man,” she said, tersely, as she was leaving the room.

 

John shook his head, disbelieving the card he had received, what was written on it and _who_ had written it.

Fully awake, hungover gone –or at least, the fog clouding his mind starting to clear away- John went for the most reassuring action he knew. He put the kettle on.

Artificial light would still hurt his eyes, so he turned off the lights that Mrs. Hudson had turned on while she was here, went in and got a few candles out in the emergency box. He lit them up. There was no way he would fall back asleep after _that_! Not to mention that all the mysteries presented to him during the day came back to his memory and made very, _very_ clear sense.

He drew the curtains back and put a couple of candles on the window sill.

The kettle boiled. He made tea.

He came back to the window. His eyes took a few minutes to adjust to the darkness outside. He spotted a tall, dark silhouette in an all-too-familiar coat. As he blew on his tea, a small smile spread across his lips.

The silhouette stopped and seemed to look up. John stared a few seconds, aware that the situation was not too different from any balcony scene in a play. Set between lovers.

He took a step back. Then another, and another, until he was sitting back in his armchair. He let out a sigh, wondering how such a pale and lanky figure could look so… _mesmerising._

He was afraid he’d have misinterpreted again, but hope was something so strong… how could he… and he had _seen._ How could he be wrong, this time?

He didn’t blow the candles.

 

The front door opened. Footsteps echoed along the seventeen steps of the stairs. The door handle turned, and the door opened.

John’s eyes were closed, but the whiff of the smell he caught was so unmistakably _his_ , chemicals mixed with pine tree, that John could not help but have his breath caught in his throat for a moment. In spite of having his back to the door and his eyes closed, he knew Sherlock had come back.

He knew.

 

“For a genius, your judgement call was really very stupid,” John said as a way of greetings.

“John…”

“No. Just…no. Not right now,” he said firmly, opening his eyes.

Sherlock was still standing in front of the door, no doubt perplexed by John’s incomplete and somewhat mysterious sentence.

Sherlock stood in silence for a few moments more before slowly turning around. John heard the shuffling of feet and abruptly stood up, turned towards Sherlock and shouted his name –to hell with his blasted hangover.

Sherlock started, as if attacked. He stopped moving, but was on the lookout.

“No, Sherlock…don’t…don’t leave. Please.” John was aware that he was even more confusing, and added ‘Just…can we not…talk? For a moment?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. What do you propose we do instead?

Jesus, Sherlock was back, already taking up the suggestion John had made. Although it was rather nice of him.

He gestured for Sherlock to sit in his armchair, went to the kitchen to make him a cup of tea. When it was ready, he handed it to Sherlock who was still standing and rose his mug to his as he would a toast.

Sherlock’s eyes did not leave him for an instant and he mirrored John’s toast, his eyes still fixed on him. Though unsettled, John followed Sherlock’s cue and remained standing.

They drank their tea in silence, observing each other, taking note of the smallest change they could see. No doubt Sherlock had deduced John had had trouble sleeping, that his limp had been back, that he had lost forty-four pounds, and that he certainly had not gone back to dating.

Sherlock was even thinner as he had been –gaunt, even– and undoubtedly paler. He had dark circles under his eyes which had never made any sort of appearance, despite the numerous sleepless nights he had had whilst in 221B. He must have had a really horribly time.

“Still have a good coat, then.”

“Obviously. Precaution for the photographs…”

“Yes.”

Sherlock did not give any kind of answer, but the smile on his lips spoke volumes.

 

John had trouble coming to terms with the reality of, well, _Sherlock_ , in spite of the evidence. He was angry. He could not even trust his _own_ eyes! He felt anger building up inside – Sherlock had broken him so much he could not even trust himself. How could he trust Sherlock again –assuming his return was not a figment of his imagination? He felt the joy slowly recede and be replaced by anger. He had been crushed by the man in front of him, he had crushed him without remorse, he had left him. Without a word. Made him believe he had…he was… made him _watch_. John put his mug down, rather violently, the awkward-yet-not-threatening silence around them turning to tension. He began pacing, the anger inside growing, expanding into fury. At first clenching and unclenching his fists, he was now unable to unclench them anymore. His pacing had become more and more rapid. He was not breathing as such. What he did was taking loud, and brief gusts of air.

Sherlock observed him for a few minutes. John’s behaviour had changed from one extreme to another – and Sherlock was at a loss to understand why. He took a step toward John and called his name, softly…and found himself on the ground. Captain John Watson’s punch had taken Sherlock completely unaware. It was so very far from his intention to hurt his friend again, but his instincts had taken over. He recovered a standing position and lurched towards John, who caught him off-balance, throwing himself at Sherlock.

They fell on the ground, John sitting on top of his adversary, effectively pinning him down as he kept his wrists firmly under his.

Sherlock knew how to pick his battles and this was definitely one he wouldn’t win. He became the submissive party in the blink of an eye. Not three seconds later, John’s lips crashed down on his, devouring him, hurting his soft mouth. John kissed him furiously, unrestrained. Sherlock let out a soft moan, too stunned to retaliate. It took him a full second hesitation to kiss John back just as hungrily. He returned the attacks with the same ferocity and wildness.

Their violent reunion had turned into violent indecency, John on top of Sherlock, Sherlock almost writhing under him.

John let out a groan.

“Sherlock,” he said breathless, still continuing to show his passion.

“Y…yes, John?” replied Sherlock with a lot of difficulty, and with shyness, afraid of what John would say. He propped himself on his arms, still pinning Sherlock under him. He fixed Sherlock in the eyes.

“Never. Fucking. Do that. Ever. Again,” he said in Captain Watson’s most threatening, deadliest voice, detaching every word. Sherlock gulped. He could still perceive John’s fury.

“No, John. I won’t. I… I promise,” he answered in the most sincere tone he was capable of. “I swear I’ll never hurt you again.”

John’s look turned from menacing to suggestive. _I_ will.

He began grinding his crotch against Sherlock’s groin, and looked pointedly at what he was doing. _And you will like it._

Sherlock shivered and closed his eyes for a fraction of a second. Continue. Please. _Please_ , he whispered.

“Good,” said John, still in a firm voice. He stood up, without displaying any desire to resume their reunion.

Sherlock lay there, a confused look on his face. He stood up as well, facing John, who looked him up agonisingly slowly, several times, from head to toe.

“Good.”

Sherlock blushed.

John came up to him, touched his soft cheek with one finger. Fantasies of touches on other soft areas of his body came to his mind.

He pushed Sherlock onto the sofa, eyes gleaming. He looked at Sherlock with hunger.

“You’re as famished as I am,” he said, approaching Sherlock’s personal space in a very predatory way. “That collarbone…that neck…”

“John… _bite me_.”

He rose his eyebrow in question.

“ _Mark_ me, John,” clarified Sherlock, offering his neck and grinding under John, hoping for some friction.

John obliged him, he pressed his body against Sherlock’s and bit into him, just hard enough to leave a distinct mark. Sherlock moaned as the pain and the movement of their bodies produced a rush of endorphins. He clawed at his back. John’s mouth left his neck. He resumed kissing –eating– him, and Sherlock’s hands tugged at John’s jumper in a very clear way – he wanted it –

“ – Off. John, take it off. Take all of it off, _please_ ” Sherlock almost begged.

“I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours,” he replied cheekily, but complied as fast as he could.

“Bedroom?”

“Oh, God, yes!” came Sherlock’s eager reply. In a split second, he followed John who shut the bedroom door as soon as they were in, before pushing Sherlock against the wall. Neither kept their hands to themselves, Sherlock’s busy exploring John’s back and arse whilst John’s launched an expedition to other southern regions of Sherlock’s body.

All of a sudden, Sherlock reversed their positions against the wall, John’s back against it. Surprised, John stopped his activity. Sherlock dropped to his knees. He looked up at John, who looked back at him, marvelling at the turn of events. Undisguised was his desire for Sherlock. He had kept it on a leash for so long, John had hardly believed it when Sherlock had returned his kiss. And to see him on his knees, reverently admiring his body…he shuddered, but refused to close his eyes.

“ _Please_ , John. Let me.”

“I’m all yours, Sherlock,” he replied, his eyes fixed on Sherlock who had started peppering his shaft and balls with hot kisses before licking him, ever so slowly. He started playing with John’s foreskin but changed his mind. He engulfed John’s prick in one swift motion. John let out a loud moan, surprised he had not seen it coming. He did feel Sherlock smirk for a fleeting instant before his mind became blank, overwhelmed by the sensation Sherlock’s playful tongue was producing. John’s chest was becoming flushed, his breathing laboured.

“Stop. Sherlock, stop,” he said, as he tried to get his breathing under control. Sherlock looked at him, uncertainty all over his features.

“Did I … Was it not…?”

“God, no, Sherlock! Let’s just…take it a tad more slowly…” John immediately corrected. “But only because you’re just too damn good! Sherlock, you going down on me… I almost…”

“I know. And you…”

John nodded. “I want the both of us to come. Together.” He motioned to the bed. Sherlock rose to his feet, the panic in his eyes replaced with something…Warm. He took John’s hand and guided him to his king’s size bed.

“John, I…” he did not finish his sentence, however, as John’s lips crashed onto his once more, not as violently as earlier, but more firmly and with even more purpose. They stumbled onto the bed, finding themselves in much the same position as when it all started, with a difference that was worth mentioning – the state of arousal of the two men. The falling over did not distract them from what they had been doing. On the contrary, newfound passion and easiness arose. Where there had previously been untamed hunger and lust was now a sort of calmer desire. Oh, lust and hunger were certainly still present, but they now knew that they could rein in their instincts –if only a little- and that the connection they thought they had in the past was indeed very much still present, multiplied tenfold, and most of all, _acknowledged_ and _acted on_.

Sherlock’s hands went from John’s arse, to his hips and up to his chest, fingers lingering on the scar on his left shoulder. Don’t keep your secret to yourself – I will share all of mine, his silent look of adoration seemed to say. John pressed his body closer to Sherlock’s, seeking friction and hoping to seize and keep the ardent passion he read in Sherlock’s eyes, pulling him –body and soul– closer.

“I knew you’d be trouble,” John said between kisses.

“Yes. And then you wanted to be in trouble with me,” replied Sherlock just as breathlessly, thrusting harder against John’s cock. John’s prick had been leaking ever since Sherlock too him up the wall as had Sherlock’s, as he had enjoyed sucking John so thoroughly. Sherlock was aware that neither of them would show a lot of stamina –unleashed passion, lust, hunger for each other which had been building up for years. Ever harder, ever faster, they grinded against each other. They came almost at the same time, shuddering.

“Look where I am now,” came John’s cheeky reply through ragged breaths.

“In trouble,” stated Sherlock in an extremely serious tone of voice.

“Yes. Does that bother you?”

Sherlock eyed him as if John had just asked the most inane question. He scoffed.

“I’ll take that as a ‘no’, then.”

Silence settled over the two of them. Not awkward, but not completely comfortable either.

“Tea?” John resigned himself to ask. It wouldn’t cut off the remaining tension, but it would at least give him something to do –and as he was presently unable to _do_ Sherlock, well…he’d take the slightest distraction available.

Sherlock nodded, not remarking on the reason for John to make tea. He wasn’t unaware of it, but he chose to keep his observations to himself.

John sighed, and left the bed, heading for the kitchen. Sherlock sighed. He had not hoped his reunion with John to be quite so…intense, but neither had he considered the fact that John would need things to be explained to him. Especially after what had happened. He got up and went to his closet, getting a dressing gown out. He could have worn only a sheet, quite obviously, but…those were not the best attire in which to have any kind of serious discussion. He braced himself, then got out of his bedroom, re-joining John in the living-room. John had visibly not had time to get to his room upstairs, put on a robe or a pyjama _and_ prepare some tea. He _had_ had time to go into the bathroom and put on a bathrobe.

“Tea, the ever steady support in any circumstance,” John said.

 _And what circumstances are we in_ , he added in the privacy of his thoughts. “Sherlock, I’ll be blunt, and to the point. Why didn’t you tell me anything? Why did you leave?”

“I am back, now,” Sherlock replied in an offhand manner.

“That somehow lacked the abrasiveness any of your other remarks have,” noted John, impassively, rejoicing in the fact that his reunion had dispelled the remaining fog of his hungover. Sherlock’s eyes were downcast for a second.

“I didn’t tell you anything because you cannot keep a secret, you cannot keep anything to yourself!” he decided that replying to John’s other question, if only with half-truths, would help them get back to how they were a year ago.

“And why is that any concern of yours? You could have taken me with you, wherever it is you were!”

“No!”

“Why? Why is it so hard to understand that I wanted to be with you _no matter what_?”

Sherlock’s head sprang up. “Wanted?”

“Wanted, yes. As in ‘no longer’. You can’t trust me for anything…why should I trust you with my life?”

Sherlock was frozen on the spot. Where to begin?

“I left for your own safety, John,” he whispered. “I could never stand the idea of you being hurt –or worse,” he added.

“Sorry, what was that?”

“I am sorry, John. I left…to keep you safe,” he said a little louder.

John could still not believe his ears. Sherlock sounded like he was being honest – but then again, he was a damn good actor.

“I can’t believe you. You…you _broke_ me. What do you expect? That you’ll come sweeping by in my life and that everything will be the same, is that it?!”

Sherlock gave this a few moments of thought before answering “Well, yes.”

John had opened his mouth to retort something, but Sherlock cut him off. “As it turned out, it’s what you happen to want. _I’m_ what you happen to want,” he added. “And you can have me. Completely. You already have,” he concluded. He sipped at his tea.

John was eyeing him as if he’d been replaced by some maudlin character of a rom-com film.

“And I’m…John. John, I _am _ sorry. Please, I beg of you, forgive me. I’ll beg for mercy. Please, John…,” he said in a desperate tone, avoiding John’s eyes.

John was taken aback by Sherlock’s words. He knew that Sherlock wasn’t one to beg. He knew that Sherlock wasn’t one to be ashamed of anything he did or said. But his last sentence showed that he _could_ , and that he _would_ for important matters?

“Sherlock. Sherlock, look at me. I know. You already have my forgiveness. Of course, you have my forgiveness. And me. You’ve always had me,” he said as he sipped a little more of his tea, looking intently at Sherlock, with unsuppressed heat in his eyes. Sherlock returned his eloquent stare tenfold, and added in all seriousness “Good. I just want you for my own.”

He could never let anyone else have the last word for anything, after all.

 


End file.
